


i got you addicted to trying to be bulletproof

by elizajumel



Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajumel/pseuds/elizajumel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bad things happen in threes. And Aaron’s never been one for superstition, but it’s been less than two weeks since the world went to hell and now he’s waiting for the last shoe to drop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i got you addicted to trying to be bulletproof

Bad things happen in threes. And Aaron’s never been one for superstition, but it’s been less than two weeks since the world went to hell and now he’s waiting for the last shoe to drop.

The blue-eyed boy on the other end of his wand—because that’s really what he is, what they both are, too-thin and trembling—would tell you that it started with a story, with four gods and a common cause. Aaron doesn’t believe in going back, is far too practical for fairytales. The gods were ambitious, were petty, fought amongst themselves and now the whole thing is crumbling down, and that’s just it: human nature.

Aaron believes in _experiments_ , in cause and effect.

The first bad thing led to the second, and so on.

His fingers twitch and the other boy bites his lip, silent, and that just about does it but doesn’t quite. There are new marks on him, scars and bruises that Aaron doesn’t recognize, a light slash across the sovereign nose. Hood thrown back, snow glints in his red hair.

Alexander closes his eyes.

 

The first bad thing is when Aaron leaves, but if you ask the blue-eyed boy how he feels about it, he would laugh—rich, sarcastic, long—look at you and say: Which time? And then write you a dissertation.

Aaron leaves because he can’t put down roots, can’t kiss for too long before his hands start to wander. Aaron likes jelly pastries and good poetry; he isn’t dangerous, and Alexander has known that for years.

Alexander likes to be right.

Alexander is an _artist_ , and everyone’s a critic.

Alexander picks up a quill and that, Aaron knows, is when magic truly happens.

No one is surprised when Alexander goes into the Ministry and Aaron disappears. Pale and slight, black eyes and that soft, unshakable smirk—for all intents and purposes he’s been, always, the quintessential Slytherin. He drops off the grid and no one dares speculate in anything above a whisper except Alexander, who’s been, always, incapable of keeping his mouth shut. Alexander knows, where and why, and it doesn’t, doesn’t matter.

The second bad thing is when he comes back.

 

Alexander fears men. Aaron fears _ideals_ , and that has made all the difference.

Aaron slips in and out of the house name, easy as shedding snakeskin.

Aaron gives the propaganda on both sides an amused glance-over and Alexander could shake him, he has to _choose_ , but he won’t, unprincipled, playing with fire and bound to get burnt.

I wish there was a war, says Alexander, quintessential Gryffindor, and then there is.

 

In their fifth year they learn how to summon a Patronus. The serpent oozes from Aaron’s wand, drops to the floor in glittering coils, and Aaron smiles, draws one finger over the scales. Alexander stares at him. His lioness curls her tail around his feet and emanates a faint, silvery growl.

That afternoon Alexander hurls insults like he hurls Quaffles and Aaron is hissing, near incoherent, and neither notices when the hall has cleared.

When seconds later Alexander has Aaron’s lower lip between his teeth and Aaron Alexander’s collar in his grasp, it merely seems like a convenience.

 

Alexander always tastes like firewhiskey. If not the flavor, then the burn, low and hot in Aaron’s stomach.

There is wind in his hair and damp grass beneath his fingertips where Alexander has his wrists pinned. The other boy is quiet—pensive, even—the forest behind them blooming dark and marvelous in his eyes. He drags his hips in a slow grind, and Aaron cries out, arches up against him, feels a warm hand come down over his mouth. “I don’t want to hear anything more from you,” Alexander says, and coos, “ _Silencio_.”

Then he can do nothing but writhe and twist as Alexander’s fingers curl around him, almost lazy, slip lower and push into him cool and slick, and Alexander’s mouth sears patterns into his throat, chest, inner thigh. The grip on his wrists has loosened and Aaron pulls helplessly at the disheveled auburn between his legs, mouth open in a silent scream as two fingers twist inside him. He imagines he can feel Alexander disassembling him, from tangled hair to curled toes to the wild keen in his throat, can feel himself going mad.

 

When Aaron comes back, he is different. Thinner. For the first day Alexander convinces himself that that is all.

Aaron undresses him, slow, ceremonious, kisses his temple and drops to his knees, does not roll up his sleeves.

Aaron falls asleep on their couch with his head in Alexander’s lap, and Alexander rubs circles along his forearm, does not, should not, look—

Every day there are so many names in the papers that the streets should run red and it makes Alexander marvel, how elegant, how _clean_ , how powerful words can be—

 

They are both soldiers, perhaps, but Alexander was made for persuasion and Aaron for subterfuge, and the world not wide enough for them.

Snow blankets the streets like a history, layer upon layer sullied by a single set of footprints.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Banks' "Before I Ever Met You."


End file.
